


my soul to keep

by hitlikehammers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Banter, Domestic Fluff, Love, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've had more second chances than anyone has a right to. They've survived the unthinkable, and emerged not only breathing, but together.</p><p>So they don't risk it; they don't play games with fate. Every night, they lay everything out: the good, and the bad. The life-altering and the mundane. The bad haircuts and the shitty cologne.</p><p>Every night before they go to bed, they make damn sure nothing's left unsaid between them.</p><p>Just in case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my soul to keep

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [weepingnaiad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad) for the beta—you're a best <3

“Fuck _me_ ,” Bucky damn well moans as he throws himself back onto the bed—and it’s an obscene thing, really, Bucky’s moan; all hot in Steve’s gut, tight in his thighs. “These _sheets_.”

“And to think you hated ‘em when we got them,” Steve smirks, stretching out next to Buck and rolling to his side, propping his cheek on his palm and watching the way genuine, untamed pleasure crosses Bucky’s face as he sinks into the mattress, all boxers and bare skin, the glint of his arm like an invitation.

All of him, the whole of James Buchanan Barnes, like a goddamned invitation.

Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever stop feeling like it’s an unparalleled privilege, just to be on the guest list.

“I hated ‘em on principle,” Bucky breathes out, those glowing eyes of his closed but it’s alright, because the splay of those impossible lashes is a gift from god himself, and Steve grins, a bit rueful, because the sheets had been a gift from Tony, and well. _Tony_. 

“And because they were too soft,” Bucky adds, soft and slow. “At the time.”

It says something about where they are, what they’ve been through and how they’ve tamed the dragons in them both, that the truth of Bucky’s words—the memories they’re wrapped in, all hard edges and foxholes and metal and cold—don’t overwhelm them, don’t overshadow the now.

“The finer things, Buck,” Steve slides a hand along Bucky’s chest, straight up the sternum.“They say that’s what your golden years are for enjoying.”

It says something that they’re like this; that they’re both smiling in the dark between Egyptian cotton sheets in a thread count that’s higher than is (apparently) considered defensible in polite society.

And the thing that it says? Steve kinda loves that thing a whole hell of a lot.

Bucky’s eyes are cracking back open as his fingers find the fringe at Steve’s temple.

“This haircut,” Bucky purrs, and Steve would say there’s too much humor in the sound, in Bucky face, except that’s not possible. Not even remotely.

“Babe,” Bucky says indulgently, running through Steve’s hair to the back until he can cradle the curve of his skull at the neck as he asks, all tender concern and an innocence Steve could see through a mile away, were he inclined to be a mile away from this bed, from this man: “Does that serum do anything to speed up follicle growth?”

Steve takes a moment to solidify the playful quirk of Bucky’s right eyebrow in his memory before he reaches out and smacks Bucky’s shoulder, much to Bucky’s not-chagrin, if his cackling is anything to judge by.

Bastard.

“Like you’re one to talk!” Steve protests, flipping his hand at the unruly strands of Bucky’s hair where they fall, well, everywhere, all tousled and wild and gorgeous and—

Fuck.

“Mine’s stylish,” Bucky smirks, because it doesn’t take a genius to see through Steve’s thin attempt to redirect. 

“This,” Bucky chops the sides of his hands indicatively against the ends of Steve’s hair on either side of his face. “This is a bowlcut, Stevie,” he spells out, slow and a little pitying, like he’s explaining the truth about Santa to a kid. “I could do better,” he scoffs. “Hell, I _have_ done better!”

And, fine. Bucky’d made more than do with his mother’s sewing scissors a time or two; one memorable go with a pocket knife hadn’t even been full-on disastrous.

So: okay, sure. Point. 

“Well,” Steve humphs, “if we’re gonna _go_ there, your new cologne?” Bucky’s self-satisfied grin starts to wilt, just a bit, to Steve’s immense satisfaction. “Doesn’t do a damned thing for you. Like,” and Steve leans in dramatically, and to be honest, there’s not a damned trace of the scent left on him after the day they’ve had, but it’s the _principle_ , and damn if it doesn’t do the trick as Bucky frowns while Steve lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. 

“Wow,” he marvels, hams it up, milks it for all that it’s worth, and if he’s measuring by the affronted fire in Bucky’s eyes, it’s fucking _priceless_. “Yeah. No.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky spits, but there’s no venom in it, and even if there was it wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t count, because Bucky’s leaning into Steve’s body, fitting his frame into Steve’s and ducking his head beneath Steve’s chin to suck at his neck until Steve can’t help it but to shiver.

And Steve’s still shivering when Bucky pulls back with a glint in his eyes that promises incredible things, or else, terrible vengeance. Steve wants the former, obviously, but given the givens? He’s thinking it’s probably the latter.

“Y’know that cheese you spent all evening tearing the kitchen apart, trying to find?” Bucky murmurs into the dip beneath Steve’s lower lip, wet and hot and fucking wanton. “The weird orange one?”

“It was mimolette,” Steve growls, but it’s really more of a whimper than he wants it to be. “And you damn well know it.”

Bucky hums against Steve’s mouth and sucks on Steve’s lips, Steve’s tongue—silent, persistent, and tasting nothing like orange cheese but Steve really doesn’t mind; Bucky sucks at the corner of Steve’s lips until Steve’s mind puts the pieces together through the haze of arousal and _fuck, but Bucky tastes amazing_.

“You asshole!” Steve pulls back, and damn it all but Bucky’s not even surprised, is already giggling as Steve leans away and glares as best he can through the swollen mess that is his mouth. “You fucking ate it!” 

And if Steve wasn’t so fucking _ticked_ that Bucky ate his cheese, he wouldn’t think twice about swooping down and taking Bucky’s lips between his own and kissing the _hell_ out of him as he laughs, damn well _shakes_ with glee as Steve huffs at him, all wide eyes and no holds barred so he vibrates with the thrill of it, and stolen cheese or no, Steve nearly kisses him senseless for that giddiness, just to taste that joy.

But restraint. He exercises _restraint_.

“Do you have any idea how hard it was to get that into the country?” Steve asks, as stern as he can manage, biting his tongue to keep from catching Bucky’s infectious giggles. “The FDA hates that shit, and I was—”

“It was _delicious_ ,” Bucky purrs, and fuck if that asshole doesn’t throw his head back, stretch his neck out, just how Steve likes, just how Steve can’t help but melt for. 

“And it turns out we’re on diplomatic duty to Paris next month so,” Bucky cranes his neck to take Steve’s first two fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them and nipping them back out through his teeth before Steve can do anything more than yelp.

“Suck it, Rogers,” Bucky enunciates with a devilish grin, tossing himself back onto the bed. “Patience is a virtue.”

Steve fucking _growls_ as he throws himself at Bucky’s prone form, only just catching himself on the heels of his palms, braced above Bucky’s body, and Bucky, well, Bucky’s just looking like the goddamned cat with the cream.

“If I didn’t love you, Barnes,” Steve tries to snarl, but it’s an uphill battles even before Bucky lifts up, presses into Steve’s groin. 

So _after_ , well.

“You’d,” Steve’s breath catches as Bucky rolls his hips just fucking _so_ ; “I’d...”

Bucky saves Steve from any additional stammering by pulling him flush against him, chest to chest and mouth to mouth and taking the words and the breath and half of Steve’s brain out through Steve’s lips again, and again, and again until Steve can taste the tang of where Bucky’s cut his tongue on the edges of Steve’s teeth, a long battle of attrition against the laws that govern friction as he sucks Steve’s lower lip, traces his gums, slides his tongue as far as he can reach and licks his way back, just to start again.

It’s a fucking heady thing, is what it is.

But then Bucky’s pulling back, the corners of his lips creasing down—or trying to, because they look as swollen as Steve’s feel—and Bucky’s smacking them together, tracing them with his tongue with a thoughtful look on his face, as he considers Steve, frowns; licks around his mouth again, considers Steve, bites his bottom lip, and frowns. Like there’s a puzzle he needs to solve, and the answer is most definitely caught up in his mouth.

“Razzles,” Steve figures it out first, the puzzle, because even after they’ve been sucking face like crazed teens he can still taste the sugary cling of fake raspberry behind his teeth from when Nat had offered him one in the elevator with a wide-eyed _’First, it’s candy. Then it’s gum.’_ “’S’a thing we missed, apparently.”

“Weird,” Bucky says, and licks his way past Steve’s lips once more, like he’s cataloguing, and Bucky always seems to be noting Steve’s exact taste, the exact texture and give of every single thread of his person, and Steve doesn’t mind it. 

“I like it,” Bucky pulls back, declares it with a grin, and yeah, Steve thinks, as he just stares at Bucky, just drinks him in.

He doesn’t mind it one bit.

“You’re right,” Steve finally breathes out. “About the hair.”

“The bowl cut?”

“Naw,” Steve cocks his head. “Well, yes, that, but yours,” he nods downward, tries to be flippant, tries not to retreat into the memory he’s dwelling on too much, just yet. “Stylish, or whatever.”

Bucky quirks a brow at him, and Steve sighs, because his mind hates him, and his memory is really fucking good.

Particularly where Bucky’s involved.

“You came out of the shower this morning,” Steve starts, sprawling on his back next to Bucky, staring at the ceiling, deliberately _not_ making eye contact as he cycles through the images burned gloriously behind his eyes.

“Which you should have joined me in,” Bucky murmurs, sidling up against Steve’s side and speaking right into the crook of Steve’s neck, which sends a shiver through Steve’s blood and leaves the rest of Steve’s words bubbling out in a rushed, jumbled heap.

“And I damn near came in my boxers with the way it, you, all...” Steve flounders, but Bucky’s eyes are so fucking _warm_ as Steve turns to see him, to finger the ends of his hair lightly as he breathes out, awkward as he’d ever been: “Curling just a little, here.”

Bucky’s mouth is curling just a little, too.

“Gotchyerself a kink, do ya?”

Steve can feel himself blush. 

Goddamnit.

“Shut it.”

Bucky’s grin just grows. “Make me.”

And Steve can follow orders when he’s so inclined; flips over on top of Bucky and meets Bucky’s perfect fucking smirk with his own, and damn it _all_ if Steve’s hands don’t end up straight in Bucky’s hair; if Bucky’s hands don’t end up cupped around Steve’s ass.

“They made the new uniform tighter,” Bucky mouths against him, and Steve has to still for a moment, has to stop and breathe to see if that makes any sense.

No. Still no luck.

“What?”

And it’s a novel thing, really, to watch the flush rise in Bucky’s cheeks by stages, by halves, before he’s blushing flat out.

It’s a great look on him, truly. Though Steve might be a little biased.

“Stark called to confirm your measurements, for the new suit,” Bucky says, worrying his bottom lip in a way that just makes Steve want to take over the job. 

“I...maybe told them to make it cling a little more,” Bucky confesses, a little hint of a whine in his voice as he smiles his most endearing smile, and it takes Steve back; fuck, does it take him back.

“You know,” Bucky adds, and now there’s that slyness in him as his hands on Steve’s ass tighten, squeeze in demonstration: “In certain places.” 

Bucky’s grin turns cheeky as he kneads the flesh there, practiced and sure as he teases the crease in the middle.

“I promise I made sure it wouldn’t compromise functionality,” Bucky kind of singsongs, except it’s a little bit too smug, and Steve should want to smack him, but _god_ : all Steve wants is to keep him here and never let him go.

“S’that why I got all those stares in Midtown?” Steve asks: a little rueful, a lot adoring.

“You got all those stares in Midtown because you’re Captain America, and you’re gorgeous,” Bucky leads Steve’s hips down to meet his own, to press just so. “But, yes,” he shrugs, surging up to nip at Steve’s lips: “Little bit.”

“You’re a menace,” Steve tries to say it even, but it catches when the line of Bucky’s cock rubs just right against his own.

“I’m yours,” Bucky answers him simply, and fuck if that doesn’t send Steve’s heart into some blissful fucking fit that makes him dizzy and breathless and _whole_ , and shakes through his blood until his mouth’s on Bucky’s again, this time trying to give more than get, trying to show that yes, Bucky’s his, and Steve is Bucky’s and that’s a law of the fucking universe, that’s gravity and inertia and force and time and space.

That’s all the meaning there is in any of this, in breathing and being and watching the stars rise and fall.

And for the way that Bucky lifts up into him, maddening and aching and sweet like nothing else, Steve thinks he succeeds in making himself plain; Steve thinks that Bucky agrees with the sentiment.

Steve blames the high on that fact, the rush of it—he blames that, and the way he can barely catch his breath on the words that slip out of his mouth next.

"I,” he pants, gulps in air and Bucky laughs, equally breathless and gasping underneath him; “I maybe kinda dug the way you looked after you took down that alien slug today.”

"Jesus, Rogers, _seriously_?" Bucky screws up his face as he stares up at Steve. “Dripping sweat and cosmic guts, that’s what gets you hot and bothered?”

“When it’s you,” Steve says, all saccharine, which earns him a shove with flat palms on either side of his chest. "I mean, it made your suit all…" Steve gestures vaguely; "y'know."

Bucky tilts his chin down, eyeing him intently with the unspoken demand of saying out loud just what ‘y’know’ entails, and Steve might have had a chance at resisting, if Bucky’d removed the palms pressed soft, now, against Steve’s pecs.

But he doesn’t. So.

"You slipped all the armor off, after," Steve mumbles, his breath suddenly hotter than it should be, thicker, coming more quickly. "The rest just, well," and Steve’s mouth’s dry as his eyes trail down Bucky’s bare skin to the waist of his boxers, swallowing as best he can in order to get the point across, in order to not fall too far into the sight of the skin itself, so much better than the body suit that clung like glue to those muscles, all those planes and lines and dips, and…

God _damnit_.

"It fits you real nice,” Steve says, as straight and plain and steady and _not_ fucking breathless as he can manage.

Which isn’t much, for any of those, to be honest.

Bucky’s smirking up at him, but it’s a different sort, now: it’s joyful and giddy and playful and maybe Bucky’s chest is rising a little quicker, a little fuller than it had been before—maybe if Bucky’d move his hands from Steve’s chest, the skin of their torsos would brush on the inhale every second, every half-a-second.

Maybe.

"S'that your way of sayin' you don't mind me having my way with your star-spangled spandex?" Bucky asks him, that blue gaze sparkling like the stars in the sky, only better.

"That's my way of saying what goes around, comes around,” Steve says, lets himself embrace the way his lungs are heaving as something gorgeous, something filled with promise right here, with _him_. “And I like what comes around."

Steve’s mouth isn’t even closed around that last word before Bucky’s lips are on his own, before Bucky’s got hands tight against Steve’s hips and is leveraging his weight upward and over, using Steve’s higher center of gravity against him where he’s raised on his hands above Bucky’s frame, flipping them in less than a blink and lowering himself, body against body as he kisses Steve with something deeper, something more manic and wild and needy and full than the cling of any uniform, the cut of any muscles. Well.

Any muscle, maybe, save the one Bucky’s hand comes to settle on, left of center in the middle of Steve’s chest as he slips into Steve’s mouth, nipping and sucking and kneading and _gasping_ until it’s more of a sob than a moan that rises between them—more of a rending than a coming together but it’s not a wrong kind, not a bad kind.

Steve doesn’t fear coming undone, anymore. Not when there’s Bucky, not when there’s _them_.

“I was there,” Bucky pants against Steve’s parted lips, and it’s hot and cold somehow, all at once.

“Hmmm?” Steve’s voice quivers a little through the sound, because Bucky’s skin is warm, and his breath is warm, but his eyes are wide, cracked open, and his tone is shivering in a way that puts ice at the middle of Steve’s veins, deep in his bones.

Steve snakes his arms around Bucky’s waist and draws him closer, closer, until Bucky settles against him, not a trace of resistance in him, sprawled against Steve’s skin as Bucky’s breathing races to match Steve’s pulse, but it stays.

As Steve’s heart starts to calm, Bucky’s still reeling.

“Before,” Bucky gasps; swallows harder, gasps again. “Before Tony came around, you were up against that thing, that...”

Bucky’s eyes go far away, and Steve knows what he’s talking about, remembers just before Tony rounded the corner of the nearest building to take out the overgrown alien centipede that had Steve wrapped up in its inordinately flexible segments, squeezing him until he absolutely couldn’t breathe, damn well thought he’d break—it was being twelve years old all over again, helpless, and all he wanted was to see Bucky and tell him it was alright, that it’d be alright when Steve was gone, Bucky was brave and smart and beautiful, Bucky was strong, he was fucking _perfect_ and he’d be just _fine_ —

“I wasn’t close enough to help, but I saw it happen.” Bucky’s eyes are still elsewhere, but his voice is hoarse with the hurt of it, of the mission where it hit too close, where it bubbled up and broke out from those boxes they’d all learned to lock it in; when it seeped through the locks in the quiet, in the dark.

“I saw them take you and,” Bucky’s voice doesn’t crack so much as it dies a slow, breathless kind of death, petering out and killing something small but sacred in Steve’s chest for its loss, and Steve’s heart kicks hard when he feels wetness, feeling Bucky trembling just below real shaking, too controlled, too terrified for Steve to bear inside Steve’s arms, against Steve’s living, breathing body, because they’re _here_.

Damn it _all_ , but they’re _here_. 

“Buck—”

“You can’t keep doing that,” Bucky tells him, turning in his arms and staring him square on, unflinching even for the streaks of salt down his cheeks, the shine in his eyes. “You can’t keep trying to be a goddamned hero like _that_ because I can’t take it, Steve, I just—”

Bucky heaves a breath; tries to, at least, but his lungs seems to just want to gasp, and Steve _hurts_ for the way that Bucky struggles for air against a tightness, against a rebellion in his heart and soul that Steve knows too well, feels too much when Bucky makes the sacrifice play, when Bucky leaps before he looks and Steve can only see the world in shades of loss.

“I can’t,” Bucky finally shudders out. “And I’ll, I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll,” he shakes his head and starts babbling, starts speaking with the same frenetic need, the same panic that drives his hands up and down Steve’s chest like it’ll pin Steve there and make him real, make him safe.

“I’ll eat Razzles and I’ll get new cologne and I’ll let you towel my hair off or whatever and I’ll walk around with the tac suit and you can take off the parts you don’t like,” Bucky’s mouth moves, and Steve can feel it as Bucky leans in, kisses him quick but doesn’t wholly pull away, lips shaping words against Steve’s cheek. 

“I’ll buy you all the goddamned artisan cheese you can eat, hell, I’ll import every French cheese-mite you want and I’ll hide them from the government, I’ll lie to whatever food people want to take it away from you until you’re so busy stuffing that fucking perfect face of yours with your goddamned French cheese that you’ll have no time to take stupid dumbass risks because,” Bucky shakes, and it’s a violent thing that Steve can follow for the way it bleeds into his own frame, osmosis and pain. “Because I…” 

Bucky’s breath sticks, and the sound of it cracking down the middle shakes Steve’s soul at it’s core, makes him hurt in all the ways he can, all the spaces he knows, and it’s wretched, it’s the worst thing because this hurt is _Bucky’s_ , and Steve loves Bucky beyond all reason, beyond all other loves in the world and it’s Bucky in Steve’s arms who Steve can’t help, who Steve can heal and take the pain from because it’s the love that makes it hurt, and that will never settle right, will never seem okay for all that it’s inevitable.

“God _damnit_ , Steve,” Bucky keens, _moans_ , and Steve holds on to him; just holds on to him, endless, and they’re both shaking until it’s dying, until they can feel each other’s heart pumping hard between the tremors where they press against each other, where space only exists inside them, not between, and they can breathe, they can breathe, and Steve can’t make the promise Bucky’s asking for, but he’ll make every other promise, every other vow and maybe that won’t be better.

But maybe, that will be at least _enough_.

“Cheese,” Steve croaks out, relishing the shift, the long, smooth heave of Bucky’s lungs against Steve’s chest before Bucky huffs a watery laugh. “Yeah, that’s,” Steve stammers, running his hands open, tender and reverent along the lines of Bucky’s back as he clutches Bucky against him, breathes him in as best he can, as much as God made the human body to know another body, to keep another soul inside one’s own. “That’d be good. Except...”

Steve’s heart’s pounding, and he knows that Bucky hears it; can feel the way that Bucky tenses, makes to look up at him, and if Steve’s afraid it’s only because he still feels like an impostor—he still feels like every blessing he’s known is too damned much, that his chest, over so many others, has never deserved to feel so warm, so full.

Steve takes a deep breath, and his hammering pulse hits hard against the wall of his chest, the line of it where Bucky’s nestled close: he can feel it, and maybe no one deserves anything, maybe Steve’s chest feels warm and full because he fought for it, they fought for it; because Bucky held on somewhere against the impossible, because maybe if you work hard and you love hard in equal measures, and you don’t let up, the universe might not notice, but you’ll meet your maker long before you ever give up the ghost.

Steve takes a deep breath, and thinks, maybe he doesn’t deserve to feel this _whole_ , but Bucky’s looking at him with care and concern and the kind of love Steve imagined but wasn’t ever sure was real, and _this_ is real, and _they_ are real, and if Steve doesn’t deserve so much joy in such measures, Bucky does.

Bucky absolutely does.

“Except I, umm,” and Steve takes Bucky’s hands where they’re pressed between their chests and covers them, just holds them there all the tighter as he breathes. 

“I bought you a ring, see,” Steve says, all softness and shyness and the heavy thump of his blood sending the words out too wispy, too faint for all that he means them, for all that they stand for and _hold_. 

“And if there’s a thing in this world that can motivate a man to keep his neck attached to the rest of him, it’s the promise of being right here, in this bed, telling this jerk right next to me everything,” Steve says in a long huff, in a deep breath, in a long string of his heart humming between his ribs, between their hands. 

“Holding nothing back,” Steve says, and it’s got conviction, now; it’s got the weight it deserves from him, all the strength of the way his veins burn. “‘Til the end of the goddamned line, James Buchanan Barnes, and through whatever comes after.”

And Steve? Maybe he doesn’t deserve to feel so impossibly, incredibly _whole_ , doesn’t deserve the way his heart keeps on racing but with something bigger, something _precious_ filling it and never squeezing out: maybe he doesn’t deserve it.

But Bucky leans into him and kisses him with _everything_ , and whether Steve deserves all that or not, it’s exactly what he gets.

And then some.

"The mimolette,” Bucky laughs out, breathy and so fucking gorgeous it’s damn near _obscene_ , once they’re gasping, once Steve can barely feel his lips for the way Bucky’s ravaged them thoroughly. “S’gone.”

Steve looks at Bucky, some question in it, but mostly just love.

“I stole Nat's brie from the fridge in the rec hall, though."

And Steve laughs until he shakes, until he’s kissing Bucky again because this man.

This _man_.

“Oh god, yes,” Steve half-moans, leaning their foreheads together and breathing heavy between them, memorizing the smile on Bucky’s faced, stretched wider than Steve’s ever seen. “I'm starving. Get that shit.”

Bucky sucks Steve’s lower lip for a few seconds more before he pulls away, and Steve makes no secret of watching the stretch of those muscles, their ripple on that bare torso: his lover’s torso. His everything.

His husband, someday. His husband someday _soon_.

Jesus _Christ_.

“Buck,” Steve says, and it’s all marveling in his eyes when Bucky turns to lean against doorframe, where Steve thinks there’s a blessing that the world can’t hold and it’s standing there, looking back at him like _he’s_ the impossible treasure, like Steve’s the one worth more than every heart and soul.

“The cheese thing? All the French cheese I want?” Steve asks, and Bucky’s brow quirks as Steve’s lips turn up with a not-inconsiderable amount of snark as his blood sings hallelujah through him at top speed, full force. 

“That’d still be a real great wedding present,” Steve smiles broadly. “Just saying.”

And Bucky snorts, loud and unfettered, and Steve flops flat onto the bed again, biting his tongue against raw giggles that hold so much more than humor, that hold technicolor, sunrise-gleaming _bliss_ , and Steve’s eyes are closed, savoring the feeling, when he feels it: the impact of something warm, and soft across his face.

He opens his eyes, and he doesn’t fight the laughter anymore as he peels Bucky’s boxers from his head; grins as he hears Bucky pad—gloriously naked, now, and Steve’s laughter just deepens, just resonates through him all the more untamed—out toward their kitchen, and if Bucky’s going to punish him for his cheekiness with a striptease, with his underwear tossed at Steve’s face, well.

It’s not the tac armor.

But it’ll fucking do.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com), if that's your groove :)


End file.
